


The Definition of Life

by Ilostmywho



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 09:33:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10273847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilostmywho/pseuds/Ilostmywho
Summary: Hannibal, still young, is watching his cruel caretaker go through his sister's things, looking for anything to sell. There is a point where action is required, when the injustice is too great. He wasn't meant to be a murderer.





	

It didn't start out as a murder. It didn't begin with a killing, a knife or a gun or a snare. It hadn't started out with a fight.

The man, his caretaker had crouched down next to Mischa's things. Scattered items, whatever they had managed to bring. She'd filled her little suit case with artifacts that rattled about. A golden necklace, a worn book, her first dress, their mother's favorite bracelet, a dried flower that wound up getting crushed, spreading it's pink petals about in the shape of cracked snow. Their caretaker, or rather, Hannibal's caretaker, a dirty man with a smelly overcoat had grunted a hello when he entered Hannibal's quarters, spreading the muck about on the floor from his worn down, muddy shoes. The rat-like man sniffled, his nose runny from the perpetual cold. “There has to be something in this garbage that's worth money-...” He didn't acknowledge Hannibal's protests, muttering a “Not like she's gonna use it,” over his shoulder to placate the anger behind him.

There was something in the form of him, the deep sedation and the stench of smuggled-in cigarettes that set something ablaze within Hannibal. This man made out of garbage, this cheapskate turned guardian, had his dirty fingers deep among Mischa's last belongings, the final things she'd touched, her carefully guarded secrets and mementos that she'd lugged over the mountains and across the beaten plains.

Hannibal reached for the knife on his nightstand as a test, to see if he could, if there was some entity in the world that would stop him. He tested his strength, his grip, and he was strong, suddenly strong, his ragged breathing almost wiped out the sounds of scraping within the small suit case and the throat clearing by the older man. He clenched his fingers again, to see if it would hold, then walked up behind him, avoiding the floorboards that creaked.

A deep breath, and he dug the knife into the man's neck. A grunt, either from the bones or the useless person right by his legs. The wool coat became saturated, pooling blood soaking through. The man grunted, once, a coughed noncompliance to the state of things, to the curated metal, jammed all the way into the handle. He shuddered once, releasing a foul smell, there was a sound of something stuck deep within his throat. Mouth gaping, eyes vacant, he sunk down on the floor, a slow slide that ended on the ragged carpet. His hands were still on the book, his index finger prying open a spread, saying _I will read this next_.

Hannibal took the novel out of his hands, a pair of unkind hands, darkened by soil and the beer their master constantly spilled. He fidgeted with the knife, a silver thing given to him by his father. It was lodged in there, and as he pulled on it, trying to wedge it loose, the body moved with it. He had to take a moment to breathe, to swallow and push down the bile that was being squeezed out of him by his cramping gut. His right hand covering his mouth, eyes closed, he then yanked the blade out. Looking for something to wipe the blade on then settling for the corner of the bed spread, he then hid the knife in his boots, the handle downwards, the knobbly ivory pearls were warm against his skin.

* * *

_Many years later_

It had been a long day. His back crackled as he straightened up, the tongue in one hand and the scalpel in the other.

Whoever had painted the ceiling had done a tremendous job. The paintings were a far cry from any styling of the Italian renaissance, as the angels' were clad in muted colors, the fabric barely shaded. Far above him, the deities slowly heaved their wings up and down, their almost blank faces baring a sliver of nonchalance. They were uncaring, these angels.

Thou shalt not kill. Thou shalt not steal. You shall only be stolen from. You shall only be the victim of fate. You shall only sit beneath us, watching, as we make our way across the sky.

They were far from a cheerful bunch, yet they served their purpose. Their bodies covered the entire ceiling, following the arches and the curvature of the dome. They were ugly, and they were beautiful. Regarding the composition there were some issues. The shapes were haphazardly placed with their hands barely meeting. A thought discovered too late, an idea painted with an inexperienced hand.

Hannibal got up from the first row of dark brown wooden benches where he'd been sitting by the priest. Stepping to the left to avoid one of the believers, her head sunken down against her chest as if in deep prayer, he made his way to the altar.

The Bible was on the table, adorned with golden covers. Its first pages were embossed. Flipping until he found a fitting passage, he then put the tongue on the page. He looked out one last time across the blood-spattered benches and the small, silent crowd.

He took his bag.

He left.

_And Esther answered, If it seem good unto the king, let the king and Haman come this day unto the banquet that I have prepared for him._

* * *

There was no fear in him.

The man's mind played tricks on him - unfeeling, senseless hallucinations of dead and dying men. As Will retold the story, his hands moved along with the action, “I saw Garret Jacob Hobbs,” he claimed, anxiously pacing along the floor.

Hannibal, sitting in the dedicated chair, caught a faint breeze of the repugnant after shave, stirred up by Graham's movements.

This latest catch in Jack's web was an unwilling victim. An expert in violent crime. The man was a tightly wound up spring, a coil set on pushing back. Set on eloping, exploding. His empathy was what made him useful, yet Jack afforded him none of it.

Will, rubbing a hand across his unshaven cheek, sat back down in the chair. “I can feel myself slipping.”

Hannibal, saying nothing, awaited the follow up, the conclusion.

“It feels like I'm fading.”

Graham, unsure of himself, yet a stronger presence than he'd ever been. Tinged to his smell there was an undertone, a sickening gust of fever dreams. His complexion was off. So was his judgment, his usually clear mind was distraught, distrusting. He didn't rely on people, he lived his days along with his dogs. He'd said nothing to Jack, brushed his worries off. This man with no motives except the want to be left alone, sat in his chair. He slung worries like anchors into the air, waiting for something to stick.

He was dying, slowly. Pieces of him, one at a time, lost to fever. Another man, one less terrific, would have run screaming for the hills. A lesser person would have clamored the halls of the ER, would have rung his remaining family up to tell them he was going insane or to tell them his last wish. And yet here he was. Still fighting it, unbeknownst to him fighting a war that he was destined to lose.

Will Graham was a proud man, but that wasn't why Hannibal still sat opposite him, watching his mind unfold. He was tenacious, clever, bitingly sardonic when he failed to control himself. He had a heart unlike anything Hannibal had come across, he was there, in every interaction, laying his motives bare. He was there and then he wasn't, sealing himself off, a stiff set to his shoulders, the mere way of holding his neck suggested he be left alone. The job unraveled him and yet he went there, walking among the dead bodies that he was certain would maim him later on. It was compulsive, this compliance, yet he hated it, hated every part of it enough to wake up even more tired than he went to bed.

There was no fear in him, and that made him beautiful.

He was beautiful in the way a fallen angel is beautiful, crawling among the debris of an entire annihilated block. He was beautiful the way he promised one thing and then did the opposite. He was beautiful when he was angry, a hot edge in his voice, of barely contained profanities. He was angry when he was beautiful because the anger didn't fit him and he didn't want it and yet it was his. He was beautiful even when he had a fever, when his forehead was sweaty and the usual distaste for the human condition wasn't in Hannibal during those moments, even when he put his hands on Will's forehead there wasn't a single cell of him who disliked it, rather, there was an ember in his stomach, brimming, alight, scathing hot desire mingled with endless frustration. He was his patient and Hannibal had heard all of his flaws, his shortcomings, his inane inability to think of himself first, all of it, he had seen it in other people and he had detested them, yet this man, this man who constantly got in trouble and bought the most vile bottled perfume he'd ever had the misfortune of smelling, this man was worth an effort.

Hannibal had seen it in his patients, the way they were blind to their gallows, turning their head when crossing the street instead of looking both ways. Most of them met their demise just as promised, and here it was, his own death in the shape of a tired man who hadn't shaved for five days.

There would be a day when Will would see through his fickle person suit. Hannibal had an end and this man would be the one to bring it about.

He would be his executioner. Or his victim.

It didn't start out as a murder.


End file.
